Discoveries At Nineveh
by
Austen Henry Layard, Esq., D.C.L.

A Popular Account of Discoveries at Nineveh. Austen Henry Layard. J. C. Derby.
New York. 1854.

Chapter 6

The preparations for my journey were completed by the 28th August,
and on that day I started from Mosul. My party consisted of Mr. Hormuzd Rassam,
Ibrahim Agha, two Albanian irregulars, who were to accompany me as far as Amadiyah,
a servant, a groom, and one Ionan, or Ionunco, as he was familiarly called, a
half-witted Nestorian, whose drunken frolics were reserved for the entertainment
of the patriarch, and who was enlisted into our caravan for the amusement of the
company. We rode our own horses. As Ionunco pretended to know all the mountain-roads,
and volunteered to conduct us, we placed ourselves under his guidance. I was provided
with Bouyourouldis, or orders, from the pashaw to the authorities as far as Amadiyah,
and with a letter to Abd-ul-Summit Bey, the Kurdish chief of Berwari, through
whose territories we had to pass. Mar Shamoun, the patriarch, gave me a very strong
letter of recommendation to the meleks and priests of the Nestorian districts.

As I was anxious to visit the French excavations at Khorsabad on my way to
the mountains, I left Mosul early in the afternoon, notwithstanding the great
heat of the sun. It was the sixth day of Ramazan, and the Mohammedans were still
endeavoring to sleep away their hunger when I passed through the gates, and crossed
the bridge of boats. Leaving my baggage and servants to follow leisurely, I galloped
on with the Albanians, and reached Khorsabad in about two hours.

The mound is about fourteen miles N. N. E. of Mosul. A small village
1 formerly stood on its summit, but the houses were purchased
and removed by M. Botta, when excavations were undertaken by the French government.
It has been rebuilt in the plain at the foot of the mound. The Khausser, a small
stream issuing from the hills of Makloub, is divided into numerous branches as
it approaches Khorsabad, and irrigates extensive rice-grounds. The place is consequently
very unhealthy, and the few squalid inhabitants who appeared were almost speechless
from ague. M. Botta’s workmen suffered greatly from fever, and many fell victims
to it.

The excavations were carried on as at Nimroud; and the general plan of the
building is the same as that of the Assyrian edifices already described. It has,
however, more narrow passages, and the chambers are inferior in size; though the
sculptured slabs are in general higher. The relief of the larger figures is bolder,
that of the smaller about the same. The human-headed bulls differ principally
in the head-dress from those at Nimroud; the horned cap is not rounded off, but
is high and richly ornamented, like that of the winged monsters of Persepolis.
The faces of several of the bulls are turned inward, which gives them an awkward
appearance.

Since M. Botta’s departure the sides of the trenches have fallen in, and have
filled up the greater part of the chambers; the sculptures are rapidly perishing;
and, shortly, little will remain of this remarkable monument. Scarcely any part
of the building had escaped the fire which destroyed it, and consequently very
few bas-reliefs could be removed. Of exterior architecture I could find no trace
except a curious cornice, and a flight of steps, flanked by solid masonry, apparently
leading to a small temple of black stone or basalt, the foundations of
which still remain. At the foot of the mound lies an altar or tripod, similar
to that now in the Louvre.

Khorsabad, or Khishtabad, is mentioned by the early Arab geographers. It is
described as a village occupying the site of an ancient Assyrian city called “Saraoun,”
or “Saraghoun;” and Yakuti declares, that soon after the Arab conquest considerable
treasures were found among the ruins. It was generally believed at Mosul, where
a copy of Yakuti’s very rare work exists, that it was in consequence of this notice,
and in the hopes of finding further riches, M. Botta excavated in the mound –
hence much of the opposition encountered from the authorities.

I had finished my examination of the ruins by the time the baggage reached
the village. The sun had set, but being unwilling to expose my party to fever
by passing the night on this unhealthy spot, I rode on to a small hamlet about
two miles distant. It was dark when we reached it, and we found ourselves in the
midst of a marsh, even more extensive than that of Khorsabad. As there was no
village beyond, I was obliged to stop here, and clambering up to a
platform of branches of trees elevated upon poles, I passed the night free from
the attacks of the swarms of gnats which infested the stagnant water below.

We left the hamlet long before sunrise, and soon reached some of the springs
of the Khausser, a small stream which rises at the northern extremity of the Jebel
Maklub, irrigates the lands of numerous villages on its course toward Mosul, and
falls into the Tigris, near Kouyunjik, after traversing the large quadrangle,
of which that mound forms a part.

Our road crossed the northern spur of Jebel Maklub, and then stretched over
an extensive plain to the first range of the Kurdish hills. The heat soon became
intense, the soil was parched and barren; a few mud walls marked here and there
the ruins of a village, and the silence and solitude were only broken by parties
of Kurds, lazily driving before them, toward Mosul, donkeys laden with rich clusters
of grapes from the mountains.

A weary ride brought us to the Yezidi village of Ain Sifni. Its white houses
and conical tombs had long been visible on the declivity of a low hill; its cleanliness
was a relief after the filth of Mussulman and Christian habitations. I had expected
to find Sheikh Naser, the religious chief of the Yezidis. As he was absent, I
partook of the hospitality of the head of the village, and continued my journey
to the tomb of Sheikh Adi. After a further ride of two hours through a pleasant
ravine watered by a mountain torrent, whose banks were concealed by flowering
oleanders, we reached a well wooded valley, in the center of which rose the white
spire of the tomb of the great Yezidi saint.

Stretching myself by a fountain in the cool shade, flung over the tomb by a
cluster of lofty trees, I gave myself up to a full flow of gratitude, at this
sudden change from the sultry heat and salt streams of the plains, to the verdure
and sweet springs of the Kurdish Hills. There were “pleasure-places” enough for
all my party, and each eagerly seized his tree, and his fountain. The
guardians of the tomb, and a few wanderers from a neighboring village, gathered
round me, and satisfied my curiosity as far as their caution and prejudices would
allow.

We passed the night on the roof of one of the buildings within the precincts
of the sacred edifice, and continued our journey at dawn on the following morning.

Quitting the Yezidi district, we entered the mountains inhabited by the large
Kurdish tribe of Missouri. The valleys were well wooded; many-shaped rocks towered
above our leads or rose in the streams of the Gomel, 2 which
almost cut off our passage through the narrow defiles. A few villages were scattered
on the declivities, but their inhabitants had deserted them for rude huts, built
of branches of trees, – their summer habitations.

In four hours we reached the large village of Kaloni, or Kalah-oni, rising
among vineyards, and hanging over the bed of the Gomel. The houses, well constructed
of stone, were empty. Huge horns of the ibex ornamented the lintels of the gateways,
and the corners of the buildings. The inhabitants were at some distance, on the
banks of the stream, living under the trees in their temporary sheds.

These Kurds were of the Badinan branch of the Missouri tribe. Their chief,
whose hut was in the midst of this group of simple dwellings, was absent; but
his wife received me with hospitality. Carpets, the work of her own women, were
spread under a mulberry-tree; and large bowls of milk and cream, wooden platters
filled with boiled rice, slices of honey comb, and baskets of new-gathered fruit,
were speedily placed before us. The men sat at a respectful distance, and readily
gave me such information as I asked for. The women, unembarrassed by the vail,
brought straw to our horses, or ran to and fro with their pitchers. Their hair
fell in long tresses down their backs, and their foreheads were adorned with rows
of coins and beads; many were not unworthy of the reputation for beauty
which the women of Missouri enjoy.

The spot was rich in natural beauties. The valley, shut in by lofty rocks,
was well wooded with fruit trees – the mulberry, the peach; the fig, the walnut,
the olive, and the pomegranate; beneath them sprang the vine, or were laid out
plots of Indian corn, sesame, and cotton. The sheds were built of boughs; and
the property of the owners, – carpets, horse-cloths, and domestic utensils, –
were spread out before them. From almost every door, mingling with the grass and
flowers, stretched the many-colored threads of the loom, at which usually sat
one female of the family. There was a cleanliness, and even richness, in the dresses
of both women and men, an appearance of comfort and industry, which contrasted
strikingly with the miserable state of the people of the plain; and proved that
these Kurds had been sufficiently fortunate to escape the notice of the last governor
of Mosul, and were reserved for some scrutinizing pashaw.

I acknowledged the hospitality of the Kurdish lady by a present to her son,
and rode up to the small Chaldean village of Bebozi, standing on the summit of
a high mountain. The ascent was most precipitous, and the horses could with difficulty
reach the place. We found a group of ten houses, built on the edge of a cliff
overhanging the valley, at so great a height, that the stream below was scarcely
visible. The inhabitants were poor, but received us with unaffected hospitality.
I had left the usual road to Amadiyah for the purpose of visiting an inscription,
said to exist near this village. A guide was soon found to conduct me to the spot
of which I had heard; but after toiling up a very difficult pathway, I was shown
a rock on which were only a few rude marks, bearing no resemblance to any writing
that had ever been invented. I was accustomed to such disappointments, and always
prepared for them. I returned to the village and visited the small church. The
people of Bebozi are among those Chaldeans who have been recently brought over
to the Roman Catholic faith. They furnish but a too common instance of the mode
in which such proselytes are made. In the church I saw a few miserable
Italian prints, dressed up in all the horrors of red, yellow, and blue, miracles
of saints, and of the blessed Virgin.

Having rested in the village, we resumed our journey, and crossed a range of
hills, covered by a forest of dwarf oak. We descended into the valley of Cheloki,
reaching, about sunset, the large Kurdish village of Spandareh, so called from
its poplar-trees.

We were now separated from the valley of Amadiyah by a range of high and well-wooded
mountains called Ghara. This we crossed by a road little frequented, and of so
precipitous a nature, that our horses could scarcely keep their footing – one,
indeed, carrying part of our baggage, suddenly disappeared over the edge of a
rock, and was found some hundred feet below, on his back, firmly wedged between
two rocks; how he got there with nothing but the bone of his tail broken, was
a mystery beyond the comprehension of our party. The valley of Amadiyah is cut
up into innumerable ravines by the torrents, which rush down the mountains, and
force their way to the river Zab. It is, however, well wooded with oaks, producing
in abundance the galls for which this district is celebrated. The peasants were
now picking this valuable article of export.

The town and fort of Amadiyah had been visible from the crest of the Ghara
range; but we had a long ride before us, and it was nearly mid-day ere we reached
the foot of the lofty isolated rock on which they are built. We rested in the
small Chaldean village of Bebadi, one of the few in the district which still retain
the Nestorian faith. The inhabitants were miserably poor, and I had to listen
to a long tale of wretchedness and oppression. The church was hung with a few
tattered cotton handkerchiefs, and the priest’s garments were to match. I gave
him two or three pieces of common print, out of which he made a turban for himself,
and beautified the altar.

Some half-clothed, fever-stricken Albanians were slumbering on the stone benches
as we entered the gates of the fort, which, certainly, during the season of Ramazan,
if not at all others, might be taken by surprise by a few resolute
Kurds. We found ourselves in the midst of a heap of ruins – porches, bazars, baths,
habitations, all laid open to their inmost recesses. Falling walls would have
threatened passers-by, had there been any; but the place was a desert. We had
some difficulty in finding our way to a crumbling ruin, honored with the name
of Serai – the Palace. Here the same general sleep prevailed. Neither guards nor
servants were visible, and we wandered through the building until we reached the
room of the governor. His hangers on were indulging in comfort and sleep upon
the divans, and we had some trouble in rousing them. We were at length taken to
a large, gaudily-painted room, in a tower, built on the very edge of the rock,
and overlooking the whole valley – the only remnant of the state of the old hereditary
pashaws of Amadiyah. A refreshing breeze came down from the mountain, the view
was extensive and beautiful, and I forgot the desolation and misery which reigned
around.

A few miserable Nestorian Chaldeans, and one or two half-starved Jews came
to me with the usual melancholy tale of distress; and, shortly after, Kasha Mendi,
a worthy ecclesiastic, who ministered to the spiritual wants of half the villages
in the valley, hearing of my arrival, joined the party. The priest was, of course,
better informed than the rest; and from him I obtained the information I required
as to the state of the Chaldeans in the district, and as to the means of reaching
Tiyari. The Albanian irregulars were to leave me here, the authority of the Pashaw
of Mosul not extending beyond Amadiyah. We were now to enter the territories of
Kurdish chiefs, who scarcely admitted any dependence upon the Porte. I determined
upon hiring mules for the rest of my journey, and sending all my horses, except
one, with the Albanians to Dohuk, there to await my return.

It was the hour of afternoon prayer before Selim Agha, the mutesellim, or
governor, emerged from his harem; which, however, as far as the fair sex were
concerned, was empty. The old gentleman, who was hungry, half asleep, and in
the third stage of the ague, hurried through the ordinary salutations, and asked at
once for quinine. His attendants exhibited illustrations of every variety of the
fever; some shivered, others glowed, and the rest sweated. He entreated me to
go with him into the harem; his two sons were buried beneath piles of cloaks,
carpets, and grain-sacks, but the whole mass trembled with the violence of their
shaking. I dealt out emetics and quinine with a liberal hand, and returned to
the Salamlik, to hear from Selim Agha a most doleful history of fever, diminished
revenues, arrears of pay, and rebellious Kurds. The tears ran down his cheeks
as he recapitulated his manifold misfortunes, and entreated me to intercede with
the governor of Mosul for his advancement or recall. I left him with his watch
in his hand, anxiously looking for sunset, that he might console himself with
a dose of tartar-emetic.

Amadiyah was formerly a place of considerable importance and strength, containing
a very large and flourishing population. It was governed by hereditary pashaws
– feudal chiefs, who traced their descent from the Abbaside caliphs, and were
always looked up to, on that account, with religious respect by the Kurds. The
ladies of this family were no less venerated, and enjoyed the very peculiar title,
for a woman, of “Khan.” The last of these hereditary chiefs was Ismail Pashaw;
who long defied, in his almost inaccessible castle, the attempts of Injeh Bairakdar
Mohammed Pashaw to reduce him. A mine was at length sprung under a part of the
wall, which, from its position, the Kurds had believed safe from attack, and the
place was taken by assault. Ismail Pashaw was sent a prisoner to Baghdad, where
he still remains; and his family, among whom was his beautiful wife, Esma Khan,
not unknown to the Europeans of Mosul, together with Mohammed Seyyid Pashaw of
Akra, 3 a member of the same race, long lived upon the bounty
of Mr. Rassam. Amadiyah is frequently mentioned by the early Arab geographers
and historians, and its foundation dates, most probably, from a very
early epoch. Kasha Mendi casually confirmed the assertion of Rich, that the town
was once called Ecbatana, by saying, that he had seen it so designated in a very
early Chaldean MS. The only ancient remains that I could discover, were a defaced
bas-relief on the rock near the northern gate, of which sufficient alone was distinguishable
to enable me to assign to it an approximate date – the time of the Arsacian kings;
and some excavations in the rock within the walls, which appear to have been used
at an early period as a Christian church. Amadiyah is proverbially unhealthy,
notwithstanding its lofty and exposed position. At this time of the year, the
inhabitants leave the town for the neighboring mountains, in the valleys of which
they construct “ozailis,” or sheds, with boughs.

I made my way through the deserted street to a small inclosure, in which were
the quarters of the Albanians. The disposable force may have consisted of three
men; the rest were stretched out on all sides, suffering under every stage of
fever, amid heaps of filth, and skins of water-melons, showing the nature and
extent of their commissariat. One of their chiefs boasted that he had braved the
fever, and insisted upon my drinking coffee, and smoking a narguileh of no very
prepossessing appearance, with him. He even indulged so far in mirth and revelry,
that he disturbed a shivering youth basking in the last rays of the sun, and brought
him to play upon a santour, which had lost the greater number of its strings.
An air of his native mountains brought on a fit of melancholy, and he dwelt upon
the miseries of an irregular’s life, when there was neither war nor plunder. The
evening gun announced sunset while I was sitting with the chief; and I left the
garrison as they were breaking their fast on donkey-loads of unripe water-melons.

On my return to the serai, I found the governor recovering from the effects
of his emetic, and anxious for his dinner. As the month of Ramazan is, during
the nights, one of festivity and open house, Ismail Agha of Tepelin (the Albanian
chief in command of the garrison), the cadi, the collector of the revenue, a Kurdish chief, and one or two others came as guests. Our meal gave undoubted
proofs either of the smallness of the means of Selim Agha, or of the limited resources
of the country. When the dinner was over, I introduced a theological subject as
becoming the season, and the cadi entered deeply into the subject of predestination
and free will. The reckless way in which the Albanian threw himself into the argument,
astonished the company, and shocked the feelings of the expounder of the law.
His views of the destinies of man were bold and original; he appealed to me for
a confirmation of his opinions, and assuming that I fully concurred with him,
and that he had silenced the cadi, who was ejaculating a pious “Istaffer Allah”
(may God forgive him), he finished by asking me to breakfast.

Next morning, I left my guards and the attendants of the governor to collect
mules for my journey from the peasants who had brought provisions to the town,
and after some difficulty found my way to the quarters of Ismail Agha. They were
in a small house, the only habitable spot in the midst of a heap of ruins. His
room was hung round with guns, swords, and yataghans, and a few dirty Albanians,
armed to the teeth, were lounging at the door. The chief had adorned himself most
elaborately. His velvet jacket was covered with a maze of gold embroidery, his
arms were of the most costly description and ample fur cloaks were spread over
the dingy divans. It was a strange display of finery in the midst of misery. He
received me with great cordiality; and when he found that I had been to his old
haunts in his native land, and had known his friends and kindred, his friendship
exceeded all reasonable bounds. “We are all brothers, the English and the Tosques”
(an Albanian tribe), exclaimed he, endeavoring to embrace me; “we are all Framasouns;
4 I know nothing of these Turks and their Ramazan, thank God!
Our stomachs were given us to be filled, and our mouths to take in
good things.” He accompanied these words with a very significant signal to one
of his followers, who, at no loss to understand his meaning, set about forming
a pyramid of cushions, to the top of which he mounted at the imminent risk of
his neck, and reached down from a shelf a huge bottle of wine, with a corresponding
pitcher of raki. Ismail Agha then dived into the recesses of a very capacious
but ill looking purse, out of which he pulled twenty paras, 5
its sole contents, and dispatched without delay one of his attendants to the stall
of a solitary grocer, who was apparently the only commercial survivor in the wreck
around him. The boy soon returned with a small parcel of parched peas, a few dates,
and three lumps of sugar, which were duly spread on a tray, and placed before
us as zests to the wine and brandy. It was evident that Ismail Agha had fully
made up his mind to a morning’s debauch, and my position was an uncomfortable
one. After drinking a few glasses of raki in solitary dignity, he invited his
followers to join him. Messengers were dispatched in all directions for music;
a Jew with the ague, the band of the regiment, consisting of two cracked dwarf
kettle-drums and a fife, and two Kurds with a fiddle and a santour, were collected
together. I took an opportunity of slipping out of the room unseen, amid the din
of Albanian songs, and the dust of Palicari dances.

On my return to the serai, I found the mules ready, the owners having been,
after much discussion, brought to understand that it was my intention to pay for
their hire. Every thing being settled, and the animals loaded, I wished the mutesellim
good day, and promised to bring his miserable condition to the notice of the pashaw.

Accompanied by a Kurdish chief, we left Amadiyah by the gate opposite to that
by which we had entered. We were obliged to descend on foot the steep pathway
leading to the valley below. Crossing some well-cultivated gardens, we
commenced the ascent of the mountains through a wooded ravine, and came suddenly
upon the Yilaks, or summer quarters of the population of Amadiyah. The spot was
well chosen. The torrent was divided into a thousand streams, which broke over
the rocks, falling in cascades into the valley below. Fruit trees and oaks concealed
the huts and tents, and creepers of many hues almost covered the sides of the
ravine. All our party enjoyed the delicious coolness and fragrance of the place;
and we did not wonder that the people of Amadiyah had left the baneful air of
the town for these pleasant haunts. An hour’s ride brought us to the summit of
the pass, from which a magnificent view of the Tiyari mountains opened before
us. Ionunco became eloquent when he beheld his native Alps, and named one by one
the lofty peaks which sprang out of the confused heaps of hills; that of Asheetha
and several others were covered with snow. Below us was the long valley of Berwari,
which separates the range of Amadiyah from the Nestorian country. At a short distance
from the crest of the pass we found a small barren plain, called Nevdasht, in
which stands the Kurdish village of Maglana. We reached Hayis, a Nestorian hamlet,
about sunset. There were but four families in the place, so destitute, that we
could only procure a little boiled meal, and some dried mulberries for our supper.
The poor creatures, however, did all they could to make us comfortable, and gave
us what they had.

The valley of Berwari is well wooded with the gall-bearing oak; and the villages
are surrounded by gardens and orchards. The present chief of the district, Abd-ul-Summit
Bey, is a fanatic, and has almost ruined the Christian population. In all the
villages through which we passed, we saw the same scene, and heard the same tale
of wretchedness. Yet the land is rich, water plentiful, and the means of cultivation
easy. Fruit trees of many descriptions abound; and tobacco, rice, and grain of
various kinds could be extensively cultivated. Even the galls afford but a scanty
gain to the villagers, as those who collect them are obliged to sell them to the
chief at a very small price. The villages are partly inhabited by Kurds
and partly by Nestorian Chaldeans; there are no Catholics among them. Many of
the Christian villages have been reduced to five or six houses, and some even
to two or three. We stopped at several during our day’s journey. The men, with
the priests, were generally absent picking galls; the women were seated in circles
under the trees, clipping the grapes, and immersing them in boiling water, previous
to drying them for raisins. We were everywhere received with the same hospitality,
and everywhere found the same poverty. Even Ibrahim Agha, who had been inured
to the miseries of misgovernment, grew violent in his expressions of indignation
against Abd-ul-Summit Bey, and indulged in a variety of threats against all the
male and female members of his family.

The castle of Kumri or Gumri, the residence of Abd-ul-Summit Bey, stands on
the pinnacle of a lofty isolated rock, and may be seen from most parts of the
valley of Berwari. It is a small mud fort, but it is looked upon as an impregnable
place by the Kurds. The chief had evidently received notice of my approach, and
probably suspected that the object of my visit was an inspection, for no friendly
purposes, of his stronghold; for as we came near to the foot of the hill, we saw
him hastening down a precipitous pathway on the opposite side, as fast as his
horse could carry him. A mullah, one of his hangers-on, having been sent to meet
us on the road, informed me that his master had left the castle early in the morning,
for a distant village, whither we could follow him. Not having any particular
wish to make a closer inspection of Kalah Kumri, I struck into the hills, and
took the pathway pointed out by the mullah.

We rode through several Kurdish villages, surrounded by gardens, and well watered
by mountain streams. A pass of some elevation had to be crossed before we could
reach the village of Mia, our quarters for the night. Near its summit we found
a barren plain on which several Kurdish horsemen, who had joined us, engaged with
my own party in the Jerid. The mimic fight soon caused general excitement, and
old habits getting the better of my dignity, I joined the melee. A
severe kick in the leg from a horse soon put an end to my manoeuvers, and the
party was detained until I was sufficiently recovered from the effects of the
blow to continue our journey. It was consequently sunset before we reached Mia.
There are two villages of this name; the upper, inhabited by Mohammedans, the
lower by Nestorian Chaldeans. A Kurd met us as we were entering the former, with
a message from Abd-ul-Summit Bey, to the effect that, having guests, he could
not receive me there, but had provided a house in the Christian village, where
he would join us after his dinner. I rode on to the lower Mia, and found a party
of Kurds belaboring the inhabitants, and collecting old carpets and household
furniture. Understanding that these proceedings were partly meant as preparations
for my reception, though the greater share of the objects collected was intended
for the comfort of the Bey’s Mussulman guests, I at once put a stop to the pillaging,
and released the sufferers. We ascended a spacious and cleanly roof; and with
the assistance of the people of the house, who were ready enough to assist when
they learned we were Christians, established ourselves there for the night.

Soon after dark another messenger came from Abd-ul-Summit Bey, to say that
as the cadi and other illustrious guests were with him, he could not visit me
before the morning. I had from the first suspected that these delays and excuses
had an object, and that the chief wished to give a proof of his dignity to the
Kurds, by treating me in as unceremonious a manner as possible; so, calling the
Kurd, and addressing him in a loud voice, that the people who had gathered round
the house might hear, I requested him to be the bearer of a somewhat uncivil answer
to his master, and took good care that he should fully understand its terms. Ionunco’s
hair stood on end at the audacity of this speech, and the Nestorians trembled
at the results. Ibrahim Agha tittered with delight; and pushing the Kurd away
by the shoulders, told him to be particular in delivering his answer. The message
had the effect I had anticipated; an hour afterward, shuffling over the housetops at the great risk of his shins, and with a good chance of disappearing
down a chimney, came the bey. He was enveloped in a variety of cloaks; and wore,
after the manner of the Bohtan chiefs, a turban of huge dimensions – about four
feet in diameter – made up of numberless kerchiefs and rags of every hue of red,
yellow, and black, and a jacket and wide trowsers, richly embroidered; in his
girdle were all manner of weapons. In person he was tall and handsome; his eyes
were dark, his nose aquiline, and his beard black; but the expression of his face
was far from prepossessing. I left him to open the conversation, which he did
by a multiplicity of excuses and apologies for what had passed, not having, by
the Prophet, been aware, he said, of the rank of the guest by whose presence he
had been honored. I pointed out to him one or two fallacies in his assertions;
and we came to a distinct understanding on the subject, before we proceeded to
general topics. He sat with me till midnight, and entered, among other things,
into a long justification of his conduct toward Christians, which proved that
his authority was not established as well as he could desire.

In the morning the bey sent me a breakfast, and gave me a party of Kurdish
horsemen as an escort as far as the Tiyari frontier, which was not far distant.
Beyond Mia we passed through Bedou, the largest and most populous Kurdish village
I had seen.

Our guards would not venture into the territories of the Tiyari, between whom
and the Kurds there are continual hostilities, but quitted us in a narrow desolate
valley, up which our road to Asheetha now led. I lectured my party on the necessity
of caution during our future wanderings; and reminded my cawass and Mohammedan
servants that they had no longer the quiet Christians of the plains to deal with.
Resigning ourselves to the guidance of Ionunco, who now felt that he was on his
own soil, we made our way with difficulty over the socks and stones with which
the valley is blocked up, and struck into what our guide represented to be a short
cut to Asheetha. The pathway might certainly, on some occasions, have
been used by the mountain goats; but the passage of horses and mules was a miracle.
After a most tedious walk, we reached the top of the pass and looked down on the
village. From this spot the eye rested upon a scene of great beauty. In front
rose the lofty peak, with its snows and glaciers, visible even from Mosul. At
our feet the village spread over the whole valley; and detached houses, surrounded
by gardens and orchards, were scattered over the sides of the mountains. To the
right ran the valley which leads to the Zab. We had little difficulty in descending
through the loose stones and detritus which cover the face of the mountain, although
both our mules and ourselves had frequent falls. On reaching the entrance of the
valley, we rode at once to the house of Yakoub, the rais or chief of Asheetha,
who received us with grateful hospitality.

1 In the drawing of this village engraved in M. Botta’s
large work on Nineveh, the houses are represented with shelving roofs and as of
considerable size. Such roofs are never seen in this part of the East, and the
village, like all others in Assyria, was a mere collection of miserable mud huts.
2 Or Gomer; this stream forms the principal branch of
the Ghazir or Bumadas.
3 A district to the east of Amadiyah.
4 The term Framasoun (or Freemason) as well as Protestant,
are in the East, I am sorry to say, equivalent to infidel. The Roman Catholic
missionaries have very industriously spread the calumny.
5 About one penny.